


no straight lines or sharp corners

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Martino Rametta, Sharing a Bed, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-21 12:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21075272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: An accidental double-booking by an incompetent Airbnb host has Marti and Nico sharing a tiny flat in Barcelona for the long weekend. And yet, it feels just like home.





	no straight lines or sharp corners

**Author's Note:**

> i'm going to apologize in advance for any barcelona-specific inaccuracies. i relied mostly on my memory and a little on google maps. also this is not beta’d because i suck so please forgive me for a mistake or two. 
> 
> like always bee planted this seed in my head and i cultivated the soil. but there are more than a few surprises in here for you bb. hope you enjoy 💛

###### THURSDAY

_[10:41 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- made it 👍 walking up to the building

_[10:42 PM] **SPERA (airbnb)**_  
\- okay. will be there to unlock the door for you.

When Marti’s plane landed late in Barcelona, rain hitting the windows like liquid bullets, he picked up an overpriced, thin and flimsy plastic poncho at the airport. Knowing full well he currently looks like a clown with it over his backpack.

But it does the job. His clothes and belongings are safe. Even his shoes, by some miracle, aren’t totally deluged. His hair, however, is a different story — stuck to his forehead in a wet sheet. (What kind of poncho doesn’t have a hood? Whatever.) He shakes his head like a dog as he ascends the steps to the building, swinging away the sop. He can see the freed strands already start to curl in his peripherals as they lay lighter against his temples. 

He’s about to ring the buzzer but pauses when he sees someone — presumably Spera — already in the foyer coming towards the door.

Spera is a relaxed but tired-looking man. Crazy hair and dark, tiny bird-eyes. Not exactly what Marti pictured, but then again his profile photo didn’t show his sweatpants and lack of shoes. But Marti will blame it on the hour. 

“Caught in the rain?” He asks with a chuckle, eyeing Marti up and down like it’s not obvious. 

Marti sheds his poncho and nods, crumpling it up into a soggy ball under his armpit. But he appreciates the effort to make small talk, relieved to hear that despite Spera’s looks, he sounds rather friendly.

In the elevator up to the sixth floor, he goes on to explain the keys — one for the deadbolt and one for the doorknob. He lives right down the hall in apartment number two if Marti has any trouble and he’s sorry that the elevator is slow, but it’s better than walking up the stairs, right? Spera laughs to himself and Marti returns it weakly. 

But they stop laughing when a few doors down the hall someone is standing outside the apartment they’re headed toward, the glow of his phone illuminating his face in blue against the dim hallway. He’s got one foot propped against the wall, his opposite shoulder notched up like a modern take on classic contrapposto. When the stranger spots them, he smiles. Genuinely at first, then confused. 

He’s wet. Wetter than Marti — his clothes soaked through every fiber and his poor backpack drenched. Marti hopes there wasn’t anything important in there, or that he was smart enough to put his documents and electronics in a plastic bag. By his feet is a case that looks like it could hold a very small guitar, and under his arm is a blanket Marti wonders if he tried to use to stay dry before it inevitably got soaked too. 

“Spera, right?” The stranger asks. “Nico.” He sticks his hand out.

Spera shakes it warily. He looks over at Marti, puzzled, as if he knows something he doesn’t. Then back to Nico. “I’m… sorry. Can I help you with something?”

Nico looks taken aback, eyebrows shooting up. “Uh… weren’t you expecting me? Nico? Niccolò Fares?” He pulls his phone back out, swipes it a few times, taps. Then turns it around to reveal the reservation confirmation in his email. “I booked your apartment for the next three nights.”

“But I’m…” Marti starts, turning to Spera.

He watches his face drain of color, clasping his hands around his head while a string of expletives spill from his mouth. He starts pacing back, then in a circle while he sorts out his thoughts to himself in messy Catalan. Leaving Marti and Nico to look at each other for the first time.

There’s some panic in Nico’s eyes. But it melts when they can’t help but laugh a little.

Spera pulls out his phone, scrolling through who knows what — Marti assumes his obviously unorganized inbox — and mumbles to himself. 

“How could I forget… I’m so sorry…”

“Festes de la Mercè is this weekend,” Marti interrupts him, doubtful this situation is going to be solved by Spera reading the booking emails he should have earlier. “Finding another place to stay will be almost impossible.”

“And if possible, expensive.” Nico almost grumbles it, just loud enough for Marti to hear.

Marti looks at him, wet and tired and losing hope. Nico doesn’t meet his gaze, though, just continues to watch Spera pace about with a hardening jaw.

“You know what,” Marti sighs. “We can figure it out in the morning. I can sleep on the couch or something. I don’t mind sharing for a night, I’m tired and just want to sleep.”

Nico perks up, snapping his head in his direction with hopeful eyes.

“Yeah,” he agrees to Marti’s relief. “How about we all meet back up in the morning. It’s tomorrow’s problem.” He smiles at Marti, big and bright. Like sunshine amid a storm.

“No no no,” Spera protests. “I can’t let you do that, I’m—”

“It’s really fine,” Marti speaks over him again, already unlocking the door with the key Spera handed him in the elevator, waving his hand for Nico — scrambling with his things — to follow. “We’ll come find you in the morning.” 

He shuts the door behind them, leaving Spera speechless and dumbfounded in the hallway.

Nico laughs first, leaning his back against the closed door with his wet things by his feet. He sinks down in a fit of giggles and it’s so contagious Marti joins him — propped up on the counter in the small kitchen the apartment leads into.

“What a fucking mess,” Nico tries to say, broken from struggling to catch his breath between belly laughs. “I don’t know what’s funnier, the fact he had no shoes on or the fact you just waltzed on in and shut the door in his face.”

Marti has to wipe a tear away from his eye he’s laughing so hard — the kind that comes out silent now as he doubles over and pounds his fist on the counter.

He will admit this is all very unlike him. He’s usually quite cautious and appreciative of proper process. But he has little patience, a busy day tomorrow, and a good gut feeling about Nico.

“Thank you, though,” Nico continues, calming down. “For being cool and offering to share. I was going to but you’re hard to read.” He pauses, maybe overthinking what he just said. “I didn’t catch your name.”

Marti raises his eyebrow, exhaling deep to settle himself. “Martino.”

He leans down to shake Nico’s hand, who has slid so far down the door he’s sitting on the floor now. It’s smaller than his, warm even through the chilly rain he endured. Marti pulls him up to his feet with it, blaming the yank in his stomach on the counterbalance.

“So where are you from, _Martino?”_ Nico asks, brushing his hands on his pants and putting emphasis on his newly learned name.

So unprompted, it makes Marti blush.

“Rome,” he answers. “To visit my friend Eva over the holiday weekend.”

Nico starts to collect his things from the floor. “Friend?” He prompts, tilting his head like he doesn’t believe Marti. 

“She’s just a friend,” Marti insists, half-forcing a laugh and half-wanting to elaborate. But something about coming out to a stranger he just met and has to share a flat with doesn’t seem like the smartest idea.

(There’s a weird pull there, though. He can’t describe why, but he wants Nico to know.)

Nico nods, relaxing. “I’m actually from Rome,” he continues, this time — to Marti’s delight — in Italian.

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God,” he lets out, switching too. “Thinking in English makes my brain hurt.”

Nico laughs. “What about your Spanish?”

“It’s passable,” Marti shrugs.

“Your Catalan?”

“Eh…” Marti sighs, wiggling his hand to indicate not quite as good. “I brushed up before I came.”

Nico tips his chin to the side. “Well, you’ve got me beat there.”

There’s a lull Marti’s quick to fill. “I wouldn’t have guessed, though…” he trails, gesturing vaguely at Nico to indicate he’s talking about their shared homeland. “Your English is perfect, and your accent is... American?”

“Dad lives there,” Nico nods, pursed lips like it’s a sore subject. 

Marti notices. Quickly, he diverts, switching back to the topic of their new living arrangement.

“Anyway,” Marti continues, grabbing his own stuff too to lead Nico and himself out of the kitchen. “Thank you for not putting up a fight about this all. It’s just for one night.”

Maybe he spoke too soon, though, when they step around the place to reveal how small it is. Cute, modern. Very minimalist — but out of necessity because it’s tiny. The cherry on top being the “couch” Marti offered to sleep on — barely a loveseat at best. And it doesn’t recline or fold out, either.

“I’m a bit smaller than you, I can take the couch,” Nico offers after a beat of silence while they both stand in front of it, staring at the structured, uncomfy IKEA cushions. “And I booked later than you, I think.”

“I couldn’t…” Marti starts. But Nico throws his pile of wet things on it, deciding for him.

“Too late,” he smiles, pursing his lips and crinkling his nose in a proud smile, complete with a little wobble of his head. 

Marti notices the long part of his hair is starting to dry in wild, dark curls.

“Please,” Nico insists, “take the room. You can make it up to me by letting me shower first.”

“Deal,” Marti nods, thankful. He makes his way into the bedroom adjacent, struggling with the sliding door that won’t close. It earns him a deserved laugh from Nico collecting a change of clothes from his backpack.

Marti sees that he was indeed smart enough to put everything in plastic bags. He must be a seasoned traveler. 

The room is, unsurprisingly, small. A bed meant for two — but you better be okay with no personal space — is pushed into the corner. Plain white sheets, plain white duvet. 

Marti starts to unpack his things into the closet by the door, hearing the shower run in the midst of it. Inside is an extra change of sheets, an extra blanket, and an extra pillow. He takes them out with the intention to give to Nico for the couch. 

There’s a low end table where he sets his phone and the keys, some shallow shelves above the bed in place of a headboard, and a comfy-looking armchair in the opposite corner. He drapes his wet poncho over the back of it. With all of his things now taking up its space, the room looks quite homey.

He’ll have no time to relax, though, judging by all the places Eva wants to take him. She moved to Barcelona with Ele after graduation for university, and she’s been bugging Marti about visiting her all year.

Actually, he should probably send her a message letting her know he’s arrived.

_[10:36 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- got here safe and sound. for now.

_[10:37 PM] **EVA**_  
\- !!!!!! but also ?????

_[10:3 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- hahaha i’ll tell you tomorrow. it’s kind of a crazy story.

She reads the message but doesn’t answer. 

Marti tries to dawdle in the room when he hears the shower turn off, wanting to give Nico plenty of time to change before he ventures to the bathroom himself. Since he’s tired and he managed to stay mostly dry, he’ll shower in the morning. So he changes into his pajamas and grabs his toothbrush.

Nico’s not in the living room, but Marti can see the bathroom door open down the hall, so he must be done. Maybe he’s in the kitchen. To avoid another awkward conversation about the couch, Marti neatly folds the extra linens from the closet and sets them on the coffee table.

He wishes he checked the rest of the apartment before barging into the bathroom, though, because he walks in on Nico bent over the tiny sink, spitting out a foamy mouthful of toothpaste. With no shirt on. 

“Sorry,” Marti freezes, turning on his heel, ready to head back to the room. “I’ll just —”

But Nico spots the toothbrush in his hand and scoots over, letting Marti know it’s no big deal. He even pats the edge of the sink’s counter like a fearless little taunt, smiling cheesy before sticking his toothbrush back in his mouth.

Hesitantly, Marti joins him, running the sink. Timid not like a wary stranger but like a shy cat.

The mirror above it is wide, spanning the width of the wall. Which isn’t saying much — it’s a small wall; small bathroom; small apartment. They meet eyes in it, averting quickly. But Marti can see Nico’s satisfied smile on a surreptitious second glance. Not that he’s second glancing or anything. (But not that he’s not _worth_ a second glance, much more built than Marti would have guessed under his wet baggy clothes.) In fact, he’s trying not to look — feels it’s rude when Nico is half-naked. 

Nico sighs big through his nose, then reaches forward and turns the water off, tilting his head back and, to Marti’s horror, trying to talk through a mouthful of toothpaste.

_“Yoo cawt leab da wator rummngn.”_

Marti spits his toothpaste out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What?” He laughs.

Nico does the same. “You can’t leave the water running,” he repeats. Then turns the sink on again only to stick his face right to the faucet and get a gulp of water to rinse with.

“I left it on for you,” Marti points out, defending himself.

“Oh,” Nico chuckles, spitting. “Well in that case, what a gentleman.”

Said with any other tone, it might sound sarcastic in a condescending way. But Nico almost sings it, angles his head with it, raises his eyebrow like he’s still making fun of Marti — but not for wasting water, for keeping him in mind.

A weird way to tease someone, until Marti realizes that’s exactly what Nico’s doing. Teasing him. A synonym for the action would be flirting. 

Suddenly Marti is very aware of how badly his hair dried and how ugly the pajamas he’s decided to put on are.

Nico finishes up, setting his toothbrush on the counter.

“Goodnight, then.”

Marti watches him leave through the mirror, following a quieter, “night,” in reply. Then he sets his toothbrush next to Nico’s.

And just... stares at them there. Nico’s red. His own blue. Like they’ve lived here for years.

He doesn’t ponder that thought for too long — not long enough to feel lonely, anyway.

Nico’s dressing the couch with the sheets when Marti walks through the living room to the bedroom — doesn’t catch his eye. For the best. They’ve already said their goodnights. So Marti shuts the sliding door behind him and flops on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The last few hours have given him a lot to process, yet his racing mind won’t focus on anything. It’s just filled with restless white noise. 

From under the crack of the door, he sees the lights of the living room go out. And from behind it, he hears the couch squeak. Again. And again. With every movement Nico makes to try and get comfy on it.

Maybe he’s one of those people who need complete darkness to sleep. To be courteous, Marti reaches over and turns the side table lamp off — he should really try to doze off himself. 

He’s never been one to fall asleep easily, and he’s tried everything. Running until he’s exhausted, pills, even a sham hypnosis video on YouTube. 

Nico might be the same, but Marti thinks it’s probably just impossible to sleep on that couch. He can’t help but feel a bit guilty, especially when he doesn’t think sleep is coming to him any time soon. He hears it squeak with Nico’s rustles for over an hour.

That’s it. Marti gets up, hesitating before opening the sliding door. 

“We can switch,” he offers in a whisper. “It’s really not a big deal. I have a hard time sleeping, anyway.”

“Ah, shit,” Marti hears Nico mumble. “No no, I’m so sorry. This thing is so noisy, I’ll try to be quieter.”

Marti pauses, debating something he never thought he’d offer to a stranger. But his conscience is getting the best of him, and it’s so much easier to suggest in the middle of the night when Marti can’t see his face.

“Well, the bed is bigger than it looks.”

The silence that follows is mortifying. Without any light to see or gauge Nico’s reaction, Marti can’t tell if he’s shocked or actually pondering. 

To his relief, and then to his slight terror, Nico mumbles a quick _okay_ before Marti hears the couch squeak one final time as he gets up. 

Nico follows him into the room, and Marti — wanting to avoid an awkward _who sleeps where_ conversation — sandwiches himself on the wall side of the bed as close as he can to it, feeling the pressure of the mattress even out as Nico lays down.

“Thanks,” Nico half-laughs, and the tension melts just a bit, like the temperature rose a degree. He pulls the blanket over himself. “And sorry if I snore.”

“It’s okay,” Marti replies more calmly than he thought he might sound. “No one deserves to sleep on that thing.”

Nico hums a half reply, turning over on his side with his back facing Marti. In just a minute he is, in fact, snoring. Lightly. Marti is tempted to think it’s cute.

His phone lights up.

_[12:02 AM] **EVA**_  
\- there’s a really nice breakfast place close to where you’re staying! i’ll be waiting outside your door at 8!

Marti messages her back a thumbs up, then sets an alarm on his phone. For early — he wants to make sure he’s awake before Nico so he can use the bathroom without another close-quarters encounter.

Normally he’d set his phone on the nightstand, but he doesn’t want to reach over Nico to do so. He’s already sinking into the crack where the wall meets the bed, trying to not touch him at all. So he keeps it by his side on the mattress.

Nico rolls over, getting comfy, facing him.

“Goodnight, Marti,” he says softly, sighing, content. The snores are back in a second.

Something about the sound of them is soothing — like a sleepy metronome. And while he’s trying with every fiber of his being to take up as little space as possible, Marti’s not on edge. 

Actually, his eyes feel heavy. Like he might finally fall asleep.

“Night, Nico.”

###### FRIDAY

Marti forgot his alarm was the theme song to Pokemon. The Italian version, of course. And not set by him, but by Gio literally years ago as a joke. He would have changed it before setting it last night if he’d remembered. Why he feels embarrassed by it now, when it’s what he wakes up to every morning, he can’t quite remember. But it’s too late for that — the muted music and softened vibrations drag his eyes half-open, and he pats around the bed to find not his phone, but a leg.

Oh yeah, Nico.

His hand retracts quickly, the warm skin and the soft hairs a memory on his palm he has to flex twice to shake off. 

“Sorry—” he starts, voice cracking as Nico rolls over from his stomach to his side to face him.

Nico, awake now, pats around him to search for the source of the sound. Once unmuffled, he starts singing along, too. A cute whisper that remembers all the words by heart. He grabs it, chuckling with his eyes still closed, and holds it out in front of him.

“Good morning,” he hums. 

Marti feels like a ticking time bomb glancing over him. Bedhead and pillowcase creases on his cheek. Shirt ridden up over his hip and bare legs. Nico could open his eyes any second and Marti would be caught staring.

He takes his phone and forces himself to get up, scooting to the end of the bed.

“I was going to take a shower, do you need the bathroom first?” Marti asks, trying to be polite as he avoids looking in Nico’s direction, grabbing a change of clothes from his backpack. He wanted to wake up early to avoid exactly this.

“No, thank you,” Nico mumbles, and by the time Marti’s collected his things and leaves the room, it seems he’s already back asleep.

Marti spends longer than he intended just standing in the shower under the hot water. While slightly irritated he has to go knocking on Spera’s door to get this situation settled before he can begin his vacation with his friend, Marti thinks that as far as situations like this go, he’s pretty lucky. Nico could have been an ass, could have demanded the flat and left Marti to the streets. Or could have, you know, killed him in his sleep or something. 

In fact, he’s considering if Spera doesn’t have a plan to relocate one of them, he honestly wouldn’t mind sharing the room with Nico over the long weekend. If that’s what it came down to. And if he got half of his money back, of course. Depending on Nico’s reaction, that might even be the more convenient option — rather than packing all his stuff up again and trekking across the city; he’s not going to spend lots of time in the apartment anyway — and Marti might even propose it depending on how the morning plays out.

He realizes that’s a long list of excuses just to stay here.

But when he finishes up, towel drying his hair and opening the bathroom door to let the steam out, Nico is gone. His backpack is still in the room and the keys are still on the nightstand, so he mustn't have gone far. Maybe to pick up some breakfast or some coffee.

In the meantime, Marti can’t leave yet until he gets back. They need to settle the Spera situation before he’s out all day with Eva.

Spera may be a mess, but there are a few pods by the one-cup coffee maker and a sweet little jar labeled _sucre_ on the kitchen counter. Marti warms up the machine, sticking one in and finding a mug in the cabinet.

While it brews, he checks his phone. First for the time: 7:49 AM. Eva will be down waiting for him soon, but he has a little leeway because she tends to always run late. Then his notifications, hoping for an email or text from Spera. But there’s nothing. He’s getting antsy, and he wishes he and Nico were smart enough to exchange numbers last night in case something like this happened.

He takes a sip of his coffee — it is undeniably old.

Maybe he should just go talk to Spera himself.

He dumps the stale, grainy drink down the sink and backtracks into the room to grab the keys just in case. Pats his pockets one last time in the kitchen to make sure he has everything. 

But when he opens the door, he smacks right into Nico on his way in.

Not like they cracked their skulls or anything, but Marti watches him rub his temple and take a step back. 

“Shit.”

“Sorry,” Nico laughs.

Both in the doorway, too close for comfort, they do that nervous dance around each other, like _am I going left or are you? Your left? My left?_ And, eventually and awkwardly, they both slide through the frame at the same time, chest to chest and nose to nose.

Nico lets out a nervous giggle when it happens, and Marti can feel the breath of it on his neck. 

Normally, Marti wouldn’t by hyper-aware of these close encounters. He’s from Rome, a crowded city, he accidentally bumps into people on the daily. 

But Nico, well. Marti has spent an abnormal amount of time thinking of him these last eight or so hours. He’s got a cute laugh. He’s kinder to Marti than some people he’s known forever. Despite the clumsy bump-ins they’ve had that Marti doesn’t want to admit secretly spike his adrenaline, there’s a sort of domestic peace about Nico’s presence he can’t deny. (A voice in the back of his head would call it _a spark, chemistry, attraction.)_ And it’s the first time Marti’s seen him fully dressed and dry and oops, he smells kind of good, too. Something he must have put on not related to his shower last night.

“Sorry,” Marti repeats after he clears his throat. “I was just about to go find Spera.”

“I was actually just there,” Nico chimes in, his tongue between his teeth. He looks nervous — scratches the back of his head and glances away from Marti. “I think I actually woke him up,” he chuckles. “But, it was obvious he didn’t put any thought into it. He basically just offered to reduce the price if we were willing to share. He has no other properties available, so someone would have to find another place on their own.” 

The way he says it seems unbothered, like he’s waiting for Marti’s reaction before dismissing the possibility. He purses his lips anxiously and meets Marti’s eyes.

And really, Marti is just trying to find the right words to agree that don’t seem too desperate. To be fair, while he was thinking about it in the shower, it was mostly just a therapeutic way to deal with the best of a bad situation — but now he has to really adjust his line of sight to sharing a bed with Nico for the next three nights.

But maybe Nico’s taking Marti’s silence the wrong way.

“...which is totally fine,” Nico continues, closing his eyes and shaking his head with a defeated smile, like he was silly for not offering in the first place. “I can do that. You’ve got plans and I don’t, really, so taking the morning to find something else works better for me.”

“No,” Marti contends, dragging out the word. He’s not really sure how to backpedal now. “I’m sure I can stay with Eva. I just wanted to visit without getting in her hair, that’s the only reason I got the place. I’m sure if I explained the situation, I can sleep on her couch.”

“Hopefully it’s a nicer couch than this one,” Nico quips, throwing his head back in the direction of the living room.

It makes Marti laugh and bite his tongue. He’s not sure how to get out of this — or rather — back into this situation now.

“But only if you’re sure that’s okay?” Nico prompts him.

Marti nods. “Totally.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just tell Spera you’re staying here anyway. To get that discount. It’s the least of what he owes me after all this, I think.” He winks.

And Marti just about loses the locking ability in his knees.

Nico glances over him. “Will you come back for your stuff, then?”

“Yeah, actually—” Marti agrees, putting his tongue to the corner of his lip in concentration and digging the keys from his pocket. He hands them to Nico. “I’ll leave these with you. I’ll probably be out all day. Do you think you could be home at seven? Or really whenever works best for you. So I can grab my bags.”

“How about…” Nico trails, taking the keys from Marti’s hand and replacing it with his phone. “You just text me when you’re headed back. And I’ll meet you here to let you in.” He flexes his hand and dips his head, indicating Marti should hand his phone over as well.

He does, and they exchange numbers. Marti has to covertly wipe off the sweat his palms left on the back of Nico’s phone. When he gets his own back, Nico’s put his contact in as: _Niccolò :)_

Marti has to catch himself smiling at it, pinching it down in the hopes Nico doesn’t notice.

“I’ll ask Eva first thing,” Marti promises.

“Have a fun time,” Nico nods, patting the door frame once. “I’ll see you later.”

That’s a nice thought, Marti realizes. 

“Yeah. See you later.”

• • •

“Oh! What was that crazy thing you were going to tell me?” Eva asks through a bite of her sandwich, eyes big, batting and expecting at him across the little patio table.

It’s a cute lunch spot. Cheap and tucked away. Delicious, too — she knows all the good spots now.

Before Marti can answer, she quickly checks her phone. For what he can’t help but notice is the millionth time.

At first he thought she was just keeping them on schedule (even though being on schedule is _so_ not Eva), and it really didn’t bother him until he noticed she would tune out completely, making him repeat himself.

But she’s been nothing but apologetic, and Marti doesn’t want to chide her if it’s important. 

They’ve been so busy all morning — catching up in the midst of Eva dragging him down every side street — that last night and this morning kind of slipped his mind.

Emphasis on kind of. While new scenery and an old friend are a nice distraction, Marti’s been avoiding asking Eva about sleeping on her couch ever since he promised Nico he would. Mostly because she is clearly preoccupied with something else. He can’t help but notice her face fall every time she taps away on her screen, the way she has to rebuild a smile when she kindly scolds herself for not hearing Marti, and can he please say that one more time?

And now, because of all this — because asking her to crash at hers seems very “wrong place, wrong time” — he should probably avoid the story altogether.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, finishing his water. “I got it figured out.”

She squints at him, but her phone pings and her face immediately falls.

“Fuck,” she sharply mutters under her breath.

Marti feels his stomach squirm.

“Marti, I’m _so_ sorry. But I have to go take care of something real fast.” She’s already standing, slinging her bag over her shoulder while she explains, tapping out a reply. “But tapas! At nine. I promise we will meet back up then. And tomorrow I’m all yours.”

She doesn’t give him a second to gather his thoughts for a goodbye before she’s around the corner, leaving him alone at the table.

He sighs through his nose, slightly annoyed, fiddling with the salad fork left on his empty plate. He left the itinerary up to Eva, and he doesn’t know where he is. 

Honestly, he has no problem being by himself. He’s used to that and his Spanish is passable. But he’d rather collect his bearings back at home — with a list and half an idea of where he is — before heading out on his own again.

Problem is, he told Nico he’d be out all day and left the key with him.

Guess it wouldn’t hurt to check up, though.

_[12:59 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- any chance you’re at the apartment? i just got ditched

_[1:00 PM] **NICCOLÒ :)**_  
\- i’m actually in front of the cathedral in barri gotic  
\- might take me a while to make it back there but i can run you the keys!  
\- where are you?

_[1:00 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- close to la rambla i think

_[1:01 PM] **NICCOLÒ :)**_  
\- we’re not far then :)  
\- you can join me if you want?

Marti stares at the message, thumbs hesitating. He’s not sure if Nico means to come retrieve the keys or to spend the afternoon with him. 

(He feels a bit foolish for even imagining that invitation at all — they’re strangers. Nico obviously has plans, is doing his own thing. Why would he want to entertain Marti.)

But he won’t know until he gets there.

_[1:02 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- okay :)

The walk is short and pretty, and the Cathedral is easy to spot once he’s on the right block — the main spire towering above the palm trees. This part of the city is old with windy side streets. It reminds him of Rome.

But every step closer to the looming façade also scrambles Marti’s stomach.

Butterflies, he realizes.

They’re dancing to the music he hears. Something tropical and funky with a sweet deep voice singing in English.

It’s Nico. Sitting on the steps in front of the cathedral with a ukulele on his knee, the case Marti saw it in that first night open below his feet. There are a few coins in it, and a few spectators. A young girl even has her phone out, recording him.

Marti joins the crowd, arms crossed with a clever smile. A curious mixture of pride, awe, and comfort calm his butterflies while he watches and listens to Nico’s skillful fingers samba over the frets, to where he pauses and takes a deep breath between the lyrics.

It usually happens like this, Marti realizes, as last night and this morning and now stretch into one timeline: anxiety about Nico, then contentment. Like there was nothing to worry about in his presence in the first place.

Nico doesn’t notice him right away, his eyes are closed, but when he does spot him his smile beams through his singing. 

A smile just for him. 

That thought causes his butterflies to miss a step. But he could be reading far too into it.

He hasn’t had a crush in a long time. Although he could hardly call this that — it’s more of a missed attraction. They barely know each other. Marti will relish the fuzzy feeling and after this weekend, that will be that.

But it is there. That fuzzy feeling.

Nico finishes his song, the people clap. Marti feels brave enough to whistle amid the applause, and if he’s not mistaken, Nico’s cheeks go a little pink.

He leans down to pocket the change in the case, swapping it with his ukulele. The crowd dissipates when they realize the impromptu concert is over.

“What was all that?” Marti teases him, taking a step closer so he’s standing right in front of Nico.

Who tilts his head modestly, like his skills are second-rate and his voice isn’t godly.

“It’s just a nice way to earn coffee while I travel,” he jokes.

Marti’s had this thought before, but it occurs to him now, stronger, that Nico is here alone. The way he says it seems to indicate he’s _been_ traveling, that Barcelona is just one stop of many.

“So,” Nico starts, snapping the clasps on his case and slinging it over his shoulder like a backpack as he stands. “What happened with Eva?”

“I don’t know, really. She just said she had to help a friend and took off.”

“Did you have lunch?” Nico asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” Marti admits, and the slight frown on Nico’s lips at the confirmation doesn’t go unnoticed. 

He ponders for a moment. “Well, I can still steal you for something else. C’mon.” He bumps Marti’s shoulder with his own and takes off, not looking back to see if he’s following.

Marti doesn’t remind him about the keys.

He catches up. “And? What did you have in mind?”

“I still haven’t done my tradition,” Nico smiles over at him, hands placed cute on the straps of his case. He wiggles his eyebrows, obviously enjoying his own mysteriousness.

“Tradition?”

“Yeah,” Nico nods. “I have a tradition for every new place I go to.”

Marti’s tempted to egg him on, but it’s obvious he’s just bursting at the seams, ready to share this with Marti. So he waits with one cocked eyebrow and slow steps beside Nico, hands in his pockets.

“I, uh,” Nico clears his throat. “I like to find a very cheesy postcard and write to myself on it.”

“Yourself?” Marti almost chokes.

“Don’t laugh!” Nico teasingly slaps the back of his hand against Marti’s stomach, keeping it there for just a second. “But yes. I write a letter to my future self on it. It’s a nice way to remember. Look, here’s a stand—”

Outside of a café around the next block there’s a wire display with slots for the cards. An older woman is currently perusing the selection, spinning it slowly to reveal a wall of magnets on the other side. 

Nico’s immediately drawn to the one centered around where they are now: barri gotic, or the old town. There’s a terrible collage of the cathedral, the Roman wall remains, Plaça Reial, and Pont del Bisbe. In ugly, black-outlined yellow font in the upper left corner, it says _Hola from Barcelona!_ Marti has to laugh at the mixture of Spanish and English.

“Is this one cheesy enough?” Nico asks, slipping it out of the holster and turning it around.

“Is there a difference between cheesy and just, ugly?” Marti chuckles, picking a different one out and glancing over it. Same font, but the picture is nicer.

“Ugly works, too,” Nico nods. “I like this one.”

He puts the one he picked up in his mouth and plucks the one from Marti’s hand, ducking inside to pay for both while rifling in his pocket for his wallet. 

Marti waits on the street, peeking in to watch him stumble with his change at the counter and overhearing his terrible Spanish. When he comes back, Nico’s waving them both around like they’re winning lottery tickets.

“One for me and one for you.”

“But—”

Nico shoves a pen and postcard in Marti’s hand. He notices it’s the one Nico picked, not his. 

“Yes, I’m making you do it too.” Nico turns his back to Marti, shucking his backpack and ukulele case to the ground. “You can use me as a surface.”

Hesitantly, Marti flattens the postcard against one of Nico’s shoulder blades and rests his opposite forearm against the other, pen at the ready. They feel strong. The back of his neck is freshly shaved.

Understandably, his mind blanks.

“I don’t know what to write,” Marti admits, nervous laughing.

Nico turns his head so Marti sees his profile, sharp and handsome. “You could always draw something.”

“Oh, I’m a terrible artist.”

“Well if you’re going to take so long to decide, you could at least give me a neck rub while you’re back there.” Nico’s chin wiggles, his smile from the side is too devilish for Marti to handle.

Marti punches him lightly instead, earning a fake _ow!_ and a laugh. Nervous at how long he’s taking, he ends up just writing the date and signing his name.

“Done.”

“Okay, switch.”

Nico snatches the pen from Marti’s fingers, placing his free one on his shoulder to spin him around.

Marti almost loses his balance, and that’s really only half the cause.

It’s impossible to ignore Nico’s exhales against the nape of his neck, the pressure of his hand as the pen scribbles against his back. The way it drags down Marti’s spine when he’s done like it’s intentional. 

They turn to face each other again, holding their postcards with the writing towards them like it’s a secret.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Marti’s getting cheeky. He even holds his open hand out, assuming Nico will agree.

But Nico holds his up out of reach, then pockets it instead. “Maybe later,” he smiles.

Marti’s phone pings, interrupting them. When he pulls it out of his pocket, Nico not so slyly sneaks a peek by joining Marti at his side.

_[3:37 PM] **EVA**_  
\- sorry about that!! i’m done earlier than expected  
\- where can i meet you??

“Did you happen to ask her about…?” Nico hints. Marti senses some trepidation in his voice.

“No, I didn’t have time to before she took off,” Marti lies.

Nico nods, pinched mouth. “Well, just let me know.”

_[3:39 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- i’m close to where we had lunch  
\- you can just meet me back at the café

_[3:40 PM] **EVA**_  
\- PLEASE tell me you didn’t stay there this whole time

_[3:40 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- no lol  
\- i took a walk

He pockets his phone, catching Nico switch his gaze to him. Face half-fallen, maybe at the lack of himself in Marti’s message.

But that’s just a guess on Marti’s end, inventing situations that cause him to rethink how he should approach Nico in general.

“So, you’re off then?”

“Yeah,” Marti nods, pursing his lips and kicking himself for not wanting to leave. He shouldn’t… not want to leave. The friend he traveled all the way here for wants to see him, and he wants to see her. “But I’ll catch you tonight? I’ll talk to Eva and I’ll still need to come grab my stuff.”

Nico’s smiling, but something about it is lacking. Not traveling up to his eyes like it normally does. Marti catches himself making the same expression, feet not wanting to move away.

“Yeah,” Nico repeats. “I’ll be there.”

• • •

Marti doesn’t ask Eva about anything, though.

Her shifts in mood are practically palpable, and the last thing Marti needs is for her to feel worse if there’s a chance she can’t take him in. Or for her to help him arrange a new situation when really, he has no idea how to explain that isn’t necessary.

They meet back at the café and she distracts Marti with beer and a walk to the beach, turning away just as often as before to type out novels on her phone. 

Whenever Marit gets a moment to check his own, he fights the mild disappointment that slumps his shoulders when there are no messages from Nico.

(He has to ask himself: why would there be? What would Nico possibly have to say to him? And yet, Marti was naively hoping for something menial, like an update on the Spera situation or — he doesn’t know — maybe the stove exploded and Marti has to come back right away.)

As evening approaches Eva distracts him some more with tapas and wine, wrapping up the night by asking if he’s fine to make it back by himself, they’re not that far. 

And yes, he is. Feeling bad for being eager to get back. They hug, and he watches her make a call as soon as he heads down to the metro.

She’s not telling him something.

But it’s probably none of his business.

Either way, none of these things are proper preparation for an excuse he needs to tell Nico that he, yet again, didn’t get a chance to ask Eva.

Or.

He could lie. Make something up that would solidify their misshapen sleeping arrangement until Marti departs back to Rome in a few nights.

He’s never been a great liar, though, and he’s done enough of that in his past to make him feel icky for a lifetime.

It sure is tempting, though, when Marti kicks off his shoes back at home — door left unlocked and Nico’s presence an aura similar to what a medium might feel walking into a haunted house — to find Nico in his pajamas, sitting perpendicular on the bed with bare feet just dangling off, reading a book with his glasses on.

Too many unprompted questions bite Marti’s brain at the image. _What did he do for the rest of the day? What did he have for dinner? What is he reading? Why is he so cute?_

And then, the realization that he doesn’t really want to know the answers to those questions by asking. He wishes he knew because he wishes he were there.

When Nico notices Marti, he dips his glasses down with a pointer finger to see him better, smiling. Tired but big and sunshiny like he’s genuinely happy.

Marti notices his feet wiggle impatiently, like a dog wagging its tail. His stomach ties itself into a silky bow at the image — so homey.

(Even though he’s nowhere near home.

He remembers their toothbrushes together on the counter. How he’s been referring to this apartment as _home_ in his head this whole time.

Wonders if he would still think this way if Nico weren’t here.)

“Grabbing your things?” Nico asks, folding his book in on his lap, thumb between the pages to mark his spot. “Going to Eva’s?”

The temptation wins out. Well, partway. Marti makes the executive decision that he _wil_l ask Eva. He will, even if it messes things up for the last two nights. But for now, he still needs to cover himself.

“Um, yeah,” Marti fumbles, trying to make his voice bright like he knows what he’s about to say. “Well, tomorrow. If that’s okay with you…”

Marti waits in the doorway, and Nico looks at him expectantly to finish.

“She just said tonight was a bit too last minute. She still needs to ask her flatmates — but she said they won’t have a problem, just needs to check to be considerate, you know how it is — and that tomorrow I can bring my things over and stay with her.”

His mouth is hot with the lie, uncomfortable.

“Nice,” Nico nods, crossing his feet at the ankles.

He sounds… pleasantly defeated. Like he has rehearsed this state of mind too many times to keep faking. Similar to studying for so long the material begins to slip away.

“So... “ Marti trails. 

“It’s fine,” Nico laughs. “Sorry you couldn’t get out of here sooner.”

Marti doesn’t know what to say to that. Funny enough, a lie as simple as a laugh in response feels too foreign to fake.

Either Nico picks up on the lump in his throat or he just needs a favor.

He takes his glasses off. “Could you… possibly put these in my backpack for me?” He wiggles them with an outstretched hand, cheeky smile.

Marti grabs them with an equally quirky one, pivoting on his heel towards Nico’s backpack on the chair in the corner.

“The case is in that smaller front pocket,” Nico instructs, pointing.

It’s already unzipped, packed with small toiletries, chargers, and adapters. A few guitar picks, too. Some receipts and other small things Nico probably picked up as keepsakes. In fact, his stash of postcards is in here. There’s one from Budapest, Berlin, Paris… and the one he got here, today with Marti. 

Marti doesn’t want to snoop — he’s not even trying. But as he thumbs by the cards to get to Nico’s eyeglass case, he catches the back of the Barcelona one and reads his own name in Nico’s loopy handwriting.

His heart leaps up into his throat, choking him mid-inhale. Its nervous beating now ricocheting in his head probably cancels out his ability to read in the first place, but he clumsily puts Nico’s glasses away and doesn’t let himself take a second glance just in case.

He just grabs his change of clothes and heads to the bathroom, pointedly not looking at Nico to prevent cardiac arrest.

Marti skips a proper face washing in favor of splashing plain cold water on his cheeks, and while brushing his teeth he finds himself fixing his hair. 

Absolutely ridiculous.

Marti procrastinates, and thankfully by the time he gets back to the room, Nico has moved to his side of the bed and turned the light off.

It’s a lot less awkward to climb in next to him in the dark.

Whether Nico’s actually asleep or not is up for debate. Those soft snores of last night are gone, and he doesn’t open his eyes or say goodnight as Marti’s weight evens out the mattress.

His side is warm. From Nico being here. Marti curls up in the space and doesn’t want to admit he’s savoring it, wrapped in the blanket like the mere presence of Nico is giving him a hug.

He’s facing Marti; mouth just slightly agape, closed eyes with his blanket pulled all the way to his chin. Marti can barely make him out, the soft shape of his curls getting lost in the dark.

He still feels his heart pulse somewhere in his neck, stuck to the back of his throat. The butterflies from this afternoon have decided to take a midnight swim in his stomach acid.

But they are no rival to his peculiarly heavy eyelids, a sensation that’s so extrinsic it almost confuses him before he realizes he’s simply tired.

Everything about this situation should fuel Marti’s anxiety like fire to coal and keep him awake. But he won’t fight or admit the source that calms him, that feels safe like home.

He also won’t admit that at some point, a few hours into the night or maybe a few hours into the morning, he feels Nico’s leg crossed over his own. 

He doesn’t move it.

###### SATURDAY

Marti’s been waiting in front of this bar for over twenty minutes now.

After an afternoon of window shopping and people watching in Eixample with Eva — walking slow around the neighborhood’s large, chamfered corners in endless loops with bikini sandwiches in hand — they agreed to split for a break before dinner.

Nico left him the keys today, and he wasn’t there when Marti unlocked the door and kicked off his shoes, calling his name in question while entering the kitchen that echoed rather sweetly, à la _honey, I’m home!_

It was met with silence. Marti collapsed on the bed and flexed his tired feet.

(Nico’s side of the bed, by the way. His excuse is that it’s closer.)

But now, he’s staring down at her last message, sent right after they parted ways:

_[5:22 PM] **EVA**_  
\- RAO at 9!! meet you there 💗

Her _last seen_ reads the same time the message was sent, which Marti thinks is odd. And his own messages —

_[8:56 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- here!  
_[9:18 PM]_  
\- you on your way?

— stare back at him unread.

He’s debating going into the bar and doing a lap just to see if she’s here when the grey checks by his message turn blue, and Eva’s _online_ status turn to _recording audio…_

_“Martiiii, I’m soooo sorry, I have to fly back to Rome last minute right now… I’m already at the airport, this flight cost me two-hundred fucking euros… but my sister has been in labor and she’s having her baby and I think there are problems… it’s not bad I just don’t want her to be alone... and mom and dad are in Auckland on a trip… I told Ele you’d be here and that you might need to call her. I swear I’ll make it up to you later! I was trying to stay at all costs, texting mom and dad… because we had these plans for forever. I’m so sorry!”_

Well, at least it all makes sense now.

His resentment subsides. He’s just glad she is okay, and, above all, that’s what matters most. He puts his phone up to his mouth to send her a message back.

_“So sorry, Eva, I hope everything works out with your sister. Please keep me updated so I know you made it there safe. I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me!”_

The message is read immediately, and an emoji heart follows.

He switches chats because there’s another message he needs to send.

_[9:24 PM] **MARTINO**_  
\- are you back at home? there’s something i need to talk to you about

_[9:25 PM] **NICCOLÒ :)**_  
\- i just got back!

His chest lifts at Nico’s name among his notifications, a tiny rush of dopamine he’d rather not get used to.

Marti takes his time walking back, turning corners and going around the opposite sides of blocks to get a different view. The shops are closed, the lights off. In the dimness, the ornate street lamps glow in all their glory amidst the changing leaves. He passes some more low-key looking restaurants, patios with heaters where locals site outside — an Italian bistro serving something resembling pizza, a Japanese and Spanish fusion place that actually looks quite good — and a corner market where, after realizing he is fairly hungry, he grabs a premade sandwich and too much chocolate.

He loops the block just one more time, thinking how to word what he should have just been honest about.

There’s not much time for that, though, when Marti opens the unlocked door to the flat and walks right into what very well could be a fire.

Saying there’s so much smoke and steam in the kitchen he can barely see sounds like an exaggeration, but it’s not.

Marti pinches his nose and immediately heads for the window above the sink, opening it.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, glancing at Nico — coming into clearer view as the smoke heads outside like a moth to flame — helplessly stirring a pot over the stove.

Nico’s got to be about fifty different shades of red. 

“Uh,” he stumbles, laughing. “I’m just trying to cook some pasta. But I think this pesto I bought is radioactive.” He holds the half-empty container up, spinning the label around for Marti to read.

Marti continues to wave the smoke out, moving towards the stove and bumping Nico away with his hip. He turns the burner off and grabs the jar from his hand.

And he has to laugh. “Ni, this is chimichurri.” 

The nickname tastes nice on his tongue. He just hope it doesn’t sound too weird.

Nico’s face flushes deeper, but he’s smiling in that nervous way Marti recognizes: mouth half-open, eyes wide and bright and innocent. He looks between the jar and the mess on the stove and runs one hand up through the curls on the back of his head, keeping it there while he looks back to Marti.

“My Spanish is bad, you can’t blame me for not being able to read the label.”

It’s a very bad excuse. Marti just tilts the jar in his hand, lovingly mocking Nico. His faux judgment is all over his face, he knows it. 

“It looks like pesto!” Nico defends himself, giggling.

“Even so…” Marti goes on, peeking back into the contents of the pot. He picks up the spoon and stirs it around, grimacing. “It shouldn’t be burning. Why is it burning?”

“...Maybe I’m not the best cook,” Nico admits, eyebrows up like it’s a challenge, like he’s not embarrassed and that it’s a totally valid reason. He crosses his arms, leans his weight on one leg.

Marti just chuckles at him. This quirk shouldn’t be so charming, but it is. All Marti wants to do now is ramify the situation by cooking Nico something nice. Or at least get him fed properly.

“So…” Nico continues. “What did you want to talk about?” 

His lips are pursed, eyes darting around Marti’s face expectantly. His head wiggles all impatient and those curls on his head don’t look like they belong over such sharp cheekbones. He leans on the counter, closer to Marti, and now that the sparkle of their banter over Nico’s failed cooking attempt is done, the details of him — his intense eyes and his gentle demeanor and the unmistakably intimate aura of _home_ — they wake up Marti’s butterflies, lunge his heart back up high to give them room to flutter.

Marti takes a deep breath, both to catch himself from falling and to steady himself for what he needs to say.

“Eva…” he starts, a little choked. “Had to fly back home to be with her sister, so I can’t stay there.”

The implied _so I need to stay here, with you_ doesn’t go unnoticed.

At first, Nico looks like he doesn’t quite believe Marti. He takes him in with slightly squinted eyes, a glance up and down.

And Marti doesn’t blame him. Excuse after excuse only lead to this. He should have been honest from the start.

But better late than never, he guesses. Something about… whatever sort of relationship he has with Nico — which, let’s be real, he shouldn’t be getting his hopes up and he shouldn’t be classifying this as a _relationship_ at all — can’t start on the wrong foot, built on a base of self-defenses.

“And… those ‘chances’ I didn’t get to ask Eva…” he continues, lower. “I mean, I was with her all day, of course I had the chance to ask her. I just… felt weird? After seeing how she was acting, you know? She was constantly on her phone and I could tell something was wrong, she was already hosting my time here and I didn’t want to impose.”

Nico takes him in, intense.

“Not when…” he swallows. “I knew you wouldn’t mind. And because I didn’t mind.”

It might be one of the bravest things he’s ever said to a stranger, although that word feels wrong to label him now. 

After it’s out there, the tension in him builds before dispersing completely due to Nico’s softening expression. Like one of those trick knots that look like they’re about to be pulled tight, only to unravel completely.

“Is she okay?” Nico asks, genuine.

That surprises Marti. He was bracing himself for a scolding.

“Yeah, yeah. She should be fine. I asked her to message me when she makes it back safe.”

Nico nods, a little smile upturning his lips.

Marti wonders if he’s thinking the same thing he is — that they could spend the day together tomorrow now if they want.

Marti’s stomach growling breaks their bubble, causing Nico to laugh.

“Did the aroma of my five star, mouth-watering _pasta con chimichurri_ make you hungry?”

Marti scoffs. “And you said your Spanish was bad.”

“It still is.”

He peeks back at the burnt mess, then to the sandwich in a plastic bag he’d thrown on the counter to open the window. Both looking more unpleasant by the second.

“There was actually a neat sounding place down a few blocks I passed on my walk home,” Marti hints. “If you like sushi. And paella. And maybe paella-sushi?”

“Oh? You don’t want to share this delicacy?” Nico jokes, picking up the spoon from the pot and attempting to shove a bite in Marti’s face. He corners him into the notch of the counter where the stove meets the sink, squeezed up against him. 

It smells vile; Marti over-animatedly pretends to gag. But he’d endure it to keep feeling Nico’s chest pushing on his arm, his thigh against own. He’s so close Marti’s vision lags.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Nico laughs, stepping back and smelling it for himself with a crinkly nose. “But I do enjoy sushi.”

Marti perks up, his heart buzzing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nico agrees. “It’s a date.”

• • •

The restaurant is farther away than Marti remembers, what with the zig-zagging detour he took back home. They cross through a canopy of palm trees he doesn’t remember before passing the Joan Miró sculpture. Nico points it out, giving Marti the history before making a dick joke that nearly has him choking on his own laugh. 

(He’s not… wrong. The shape of it is suggestive, to put it nicely.)

It’s a picturesque walk, though. Early October makes the sun already gone before dinner time. The streets have a soft chartreuse glow under the plane trees that haven’t yet lost their leaves. And Nico beside him in his coat and scarf only adds to the charm. Marti keeps stealing glances, thankful the chilly air makes his cheeks pink without needing an excuse.

He shouldn’t hold on to the word _date_ — Nico said it so casually, almost kidding — but the nerves that bumble about before one feel just the same. And if it is, it’s Marti’s first, just adding to the pressure. 

When they get there, Marti berates himself for not peeking inside the window of the place beforehand, because once they’re in the dining room, it's a lot fancier than he expects.

Candles and flowers on every cloth draped table, dim lights, and a weirdly sensual lute melody from a speaker Marti can’t pinpoint. Not to mention the place is packed with obvious couples.

Once sat, Nico thanks the hostess and puts his napkin on his lap with a dramatic flair, wiggling his eyebrows at Marti. 

Marti’s own response is the very same dumb gesture back, resting his chin over his folded hands, elbows on the table.

It makes them both laugh, both nervous, looking down before back at each other with a smile Marti recognizes as coy, almost sentimental. He gets it — he wants to start remembering something that hasn’t even happened yet. Two nights from now his life won’t be crossing with Nico’s anymore.

Marti wonders how crazy he would have to be to convince himself whatever is happening is austerely platonic. Or if he can fight conviction at all, what with the way Nico is looking at him. Equal parts goofy and shy and curious. Together, all a ballast that balances Marti securely on the razor’s edge of fluttered and at ease.

He’s been here before. But never so cemented. Or so interested in breaking it down to see which side of the blade he’ll land on.

The waiter greets them in Catalan, and Marti trips over his bad Spanish trying to ask for an English menu.

They’re brought a Russian one.

Luckily, _sushi_ is still _sushi_ in Catalan, Marti just doesn’t know if they’re about to be served sea urchin or salmon. He leans over the table to help Nico — who is totally clueless — read the menu upside down before glancing apologetically at the waiter who, after just a second, looks just about done with their inability.

Marti keeps trying to say _“un momento,”_ but he doesn’t understand that Marti doesn’t understand. At least he’s switched to Spanish by now, yet Marti questions if that’s helping or harming this linguistic cocktail. He’s saying something about wine. And about dessert. That at least Marti recognizes — pointing to a little insert in the menu that must be a special. But unless he’s delusional, he’s also referring to Nico as his _novio_ — so he’s truly grateful for Nico’s obtuse puppy eyes at him, not understanding a single word.

In the end, without the heart or vocabulary to explain the situation, Marti just agrees to everything, the _sì sì sì sì sì_ falling from his mouth like a native.

The waiter walks away, and Marti exhales deep in relief. He puts his hand to his forehead and — shit, the stress made him sweaty.

“What was he saying?” Nico prompts after a moment where maybe he thought Marti would fill him in, clicking his tongue and leaning in like it’s some scandalous secret.

Marti doesn’t even know where to begin. 

“Nothing, nothing,” he settles for. And luckily the awkward silence that would have followed in the wake of a better explanation is interrupted by a bottle of cava being brought to their table.

Their waiter uncorks it with a boisterous pop that turns a few heads, pours two tall glasses in fancy, etched crystal flutes, and rests the half-empty bottle in an ice bucket to the side.

Nico, sparkly-eyed, grabs his by the stem and holds it over the table.

Naturally, Marti extends his own to clink together.

_“Cin cin,”_ they hum at the same time, and it’s so innate that even the stressful debacle of ordering just moments ago couldn’t make Marti feel like a foreigner in Nico’s presence.

“So,” Nico smacks his lips after a sip. “Where in Rome do you live?”

“Ostiense,” Marti nods. “And you?”

Nico’s face softens. “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve been there…” he drags out, thumbing the base of his glass and turning it slowly, watching it rotate. “But close to San Pietro. Although when I do go back, I’m moving into my nonna’s old apartment in Trastevere.”

“And when are you going back?” Marti asks, something intentional behind his question. He doesn’t care if it sounds desperate.

Nico picks up on it.

“I’d say... sooner than I imagined.” He’s still studying his glass, a smile finding its way into more of his face than just his lips. “The next stop is Lisbon — a flight I booked just last week leaves on Monday — and after that... who knows. I usually decide when I get there.” He’s silent for a moment, like he’s gathering something inside himself before looking back to Marti with an expression he hasn’t seen yet. “The Nico before Barcelona didn’t have an answer to that question.”

Marti doesn’t fight the wishful thinking that maybe, just maybe, he is the reason Nico can somewhat answer it now.

• • •

Marti insists on picking up the check, challenging Nico’s protest to split it with a sassy: _well, what kind of date is that, then?_

Yeah, Marti hasn’t forgotten. Throwing that word back at Nico he so nonchalantly used before they left. 

Mostly, he just wants to check Nico’s reaction to it. 

Which happens to be a playful shoulder shove that drags down his upper arm in a lingering squeeze. Luckily Marti’s jacket hides all the goosebumps it gives him.

The cava made them pink and giggly. And thank god for the disguise — Marti’s face feels like the coil of a red hot eye. His lips and fingertips tingle, restless and unsettled like they’ve been promised something. He touches them together absentmindedly to dull the buzz.

If just the word _date_ wasn’t enough, the fact that they shared a legitimate heart-shaped flan for dessert would undoubtedly convince anyone. The whole thing couldn’t have been any cheesier — unless maybe they fed it to one another. Nico pushed it by shoving Marti’s spoon away with his own for the last bite.

He was going to give it to him anyway.

(Marti totally didn’t think of it as a weird sort of kiss, either. The logic is simple: mouth > spoon > spoon > mouth. Yeah, he stopped with the cava after that.)

Over dinner they discussed their varying tastes in music and their favorite spots back home, somehow getting on the topic of Filippo, who it turns out they both know. Marti from Ele and Nico from — he’s bold enough to say — his favorite bar in Rome to go to on Saturday nights. Back when he did that sort of thing. 

He isn’t directly candid about _which_ bar and he doesn’t specify, but he doesn’t need to. They both know.

And something in Marti already knew. But it’s the possibility — explicitly straightforward now — that has that razor’s edge he’s been balancing on threatening to cut him in half.

Maybe this time, Nico’s the one testing his reaction.

But that conversation dwindles out the door. Now, they’re walking. Somewhat back to the apartment but slowly enough to take any detour they please. Marti catches Nico looking at him, looking down. Smiling and biting his lip. With hands in his pockets and steps that drag under the streetlights and the plane trees. But he doesn’t mind the silence. Something about it whirs in an exciting way.

“Have you seen the fountain yet?” Nico perks up, wiggling his chin.

Marti hesitates, thinking. “No? At least I don’t think so.”

Nico grabs his hand, turning around hurriedly on his heel. The familiar feeling of it in his own from when Marti pulled him up off the floor two nights ago is accompanied by a similar snatch in his stomach. This one he’s not so sure can be blamed on anything other than how perfectly it seems to fit in his own. Marti notices more details about it now, mostly because Nico hangs on: warm from the pocket it was in, smaller than his own, a little rough on the inside knuckles and the pads of his fingers but with a soft palm.

They break out into a run.

“We’re not far!” Nico shouts over their pounding footsteps, over Marti’s pounding heart. “Hopefully we can make the last show!”

“Show?” Marti breathes, his lungs burning as they start to go uphill.

“You’ll see!”

At a crosswalk, Marti is relieved to catch his breath while they stop for traffic. He looks down at their hands still clutched, then back up to Nico already looking back at him.

He bursts with a full, glittery smile Marti can’t help but mirror. His thumb runs over Marti’s knuckles, bumping up the line of them over and over, and Marti takes the time to intertwine their fingers — a step up from their simple cupped palms. It just feels right, and Nico doesn’t hesitate to comply.

Before they take off again, Nico squeezes. Pulling Marti along towards the sound of rushing water.

They turn a corner into a large plaza, the towering fountain Nico promised in the middle with lights melting through the water in an aqua-rainbow glow. Behind it is a grand set of wide steps up to the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya, whose gold dome is alight.

But there’s also a lot of people around — sitting on the stairs, walking through the square. _Oohing_ and _aahing_ at the fountain.

They stop to survey the scene, chests heaving from their sprint. Marti notices Nico’s face fall, like this wasn’t part of the plan.

“Better view up top,” Nico nods towards the steps, hand still holding Marti’s. He tugs him up the first flight before Marti can think to protest.

There’s a lot, and Nico is faster than Marti. But he keeps up for as long as he can so they don’t have to slow down. About halfway, their run turns into a crawling, burning-leg drudge before they both nearly collapse on the first flat landing. It’s already quieter up here. Paths to both their right and left slope downhill to different parts of the city, alight in charming street lamps and cobbled lanes.

Marti looks out — Nico was right, the view is incredible. The kaleidoscopic fountain peeks through the four colonnades they’re behind, the rest of sparkly Barcelona below.

But when he turns back, expecting to see Nico gaze out too, he’s only looking at him.

Thank god for the cover of being out of shape — still heaving heavy breaths and heart rate climbing — because the intent in Nico’s eyes paired with his honest, lopsided smile would unquestionably create a similar effect on Marti just the same.

Nico kisses him before anything about Marti can slow down.

It happens full tilt, crashing into each other like Nico didn’t want to give himself any time to doubt. But Marti’s hand finds the back of Nico’s neck like it belongs there as soon as their lips meet, and his immediate relinquish has Nico melting against him.

It’s an unmoving kiss once the truth of it seeps in — once Marti’s fingers twist through Nico’s curls and Nico’s arms come to rest around his shoulders — like breathing might break it.

But Marti needs to. He exhales deep through his nose against Nico’s cheek, sounding like a sigh of relief — which wouldn’t be wrong — and breaks away to inhale even deeper, almost choking on the air both the run and Nico stole from him.

Their foreheads stay pressed together, and Nico’s impatience doesn’t let Marti fully recover before kissing him again mid giggle. First on the cheek, then on the lips — more serious now that it’s okay. Smile melting away from it like this is something he’s thought about, wanted.

A bicyclist speeds behind them, and luckily their light is on. They dodge Marti and Nico in the dark just in time with a squeaky skid, ringing the bell on the handle passive-aggressively.

It startles them apart, but Nico’s forehead is quick to find Marti’s shoulder and laugh into the dale of where his neck meets his chest. Warm and still out of breath.

“Back home?” Nico suggests, head tilting up.

Marti can barely look at him like this. Eyes glimmering with a rainbow reflection from the fountain, his hair in the back sticking up because of Marti’s fingers carding through it, his lips wet from kissing him and his chest still expanding wide in deep breaths — although something tells Marti he’s recovered from their dash up the steps.

“Home,” Marti agrees, heart slowing in happiness to hear that Nico refers to it the same.

It sure feels like one.

###### SUNDAY

Marti wakes up before his eyes open, head resting on something he wouldn’t necessarily describe as comfortable that smoothly bows up and dips down in a steady rhythm.

It takes a few other sensory realizations — his hand on warm skin, his legs crossed with someone else’s ankles, a recognizable soft snore — to realize it’s Nico’s chest.

He turns his cheek farther in, cuddling his nose into Nico’s sternum. With eyes still closed, Marti smiles and stretches his limbs out like a lazy cat before drawing Nico into a closer embrace on the drawback. It’s like remembering a dream he just woke up from — last night coming back to him in bits and pieces. The burned dinner and the last-minute date (it _was_ a date!) and the cava and the fountain and the kiss. And the subsequent kiss in the elevator, behind the locked door of the apartment, in bed before they fell asleep.

It’s all true.

Marti’s rustling wakes Nico up. He groans, stretching himself long with balled fists and curled toes before realizing, too, where he is and how he got here. It sounds a little pained.

“You okay?” Marti asks softly, voice dry. He tips his chin up and contemplates bumping Nico’s jaw with his nose. 

Something about the sun streaming through the blinds in long, rising-sun shadows, the blanket comfortably tangled around them up to their chins, the cracked window letting in autumn air and the awakening sounds of the city — and most importantly, Nico in his arms — it feels fragile. Too good to be true.

A very scary thought crosses Marti’s mind. That maybe Nico doesn’t just collect postcards in all the cities he goes to. He collects guys, too.

“I don’t drink, usually,” Nico mumbles, voice cracking. He smacks his lips, putting the back of his hand against his forehead. “I think the cava and the running made me dehydrated and hungover.” 

“Were you... drunk?” Marti asks warily. Knowing this behavior is apparently out of character for Nico suddenly has him tense. He hopes the pieces of last night that came back to him are coming back to Nico, too. Clearly and without regret. But he takes the fact that they’re still intertwined as a good sign.

“No,” Nico snorts, low and dusty-throated. Marti feels his head shake above him. “Tipsy at best.”

“Do you…” Marti trails, wanting to say _remember —_

But Nico senses his hesitation.

“Yes,” he giggles softly, rolling them both over to their sides and kissing Marti.

Almost instant relief. Marti blatantly hums into it, uncaring how it sounds.

It presses him up against the wall the bed hugs, and this time he’s put there not because he wants to be as far from Nico as possible — shrinking himself to not be a bother, to not cause any suspicions — but because Nico wants him near.

A warm hand finds his face. Marti smiles, his expanding cheek filling Nico’s palm. This is not how you kiss a fling, he thinks. But just to be sure, Marti smooths his hand over Nico’s forearm, up to his bicep. Relieved to find goosebumps.

Everything settles right back into place — the sunlight and the blanket and the autumn chill and the city sounds and Nico’s lips on his own feeling more like freedom than a hopelessly perfect premise. 

It is not too good to be true. It is just good.

Nico’s hand slides down Marti’s back, Marti grabs Nico’s shirt and pushes at the bottom to feel his skin. Their lips part to smile but the kiss isn’t deep. It’s more about that itch of wanting to be closer that can’t quite be scratched. 

Marti needs to break away for a moment to catch his breath, confirming his theory from last night. And just like last night, Nico is impatient and chases his lips, humming contentedly at their reunion like one second away is too long.

“You were asking for a kiss...” Nico says in the space it takes to turn his head and kiss Marti from another angle. “...right?”

Marti giggles, running his hand up Nico’s chest and pushing on it.

“The answer is always yes,” Nico ignores his faux request for space, going in for his neck instead.

Too much. Marti almost short circuits. “Okay,” Marti breathes, pulling back with a dizzy head and looking away, embarrassed but still biting down a smile. “You don’t have to flatter me.”

It’s just that nothing has ever been this real before. Boys that could possibly like him back are akin to a parallel world he knows exists but can only see through a one-way mirror. 

He’s always mused but never prepared. And his brain still makes up excuses for hope.

But he doesn’t tell Nico that; something tells him his own excitement of how undeniable and inexcusable the last ten hours have been is written all over his face — pink and smiley with eyes he can feel get big and soft every time they land on Nico. If anything has him restless about this morning, it’s that fact. How red-handedly sincere his feelings are.

Marti would never peg himself as the kind of person who jumps in feet first without checking if the water is deep enough, but apparently, he is that kind of person.

His phone pings. He reaches over Nico for it on the side table, battling cheek kisses to get there.

_[7:02 AM] **EVA**_  
\- sister and baby are perfect, thank god 💗  
\- sorry for getting back to you so late

_[7:02 AM] **MARTINO**_  
\- glad to hear  
\- don’t worry, it all worked out :)

“Eva?” Nico asks.

“Mhm.”

He buries his face in Marti’s neck, hitching a leg over his hip and wiggling close. “I need to write her sister a thank you card.” _For letting me keep you all to myself._

Marti can nearly hear the unspoken thought. And even if his brain supplied it half in hope, he doesn’t think Nico would disagree.

Marti leans in first this time, after crawling over Nico to place his phone back on the table and letting Nico roll under him in a sideways scoot. Hips hitched, hands on faces. Nico’s feels just like it looks — somehow sharp and soft at the same time. They move slow. A contradiction to his wild heart, whose pulses are bleeding into his head to make him dizzy in an addicting way.

This position is almost too much. Marti has never kissed a boy before last night (albeit his daydreams), but he hasn't had to to know Nico is good at it. Lips open around his own, paused for a long time on the drawback in a captivating back and forth. Kissing Marti with his hands, too, that wander from behind his ear to the back of his neck, from a thumb smoothed over his eyebrow to pressing into his jaw. Marti lets him take the lead, too loaded on every detail. His brain behind his heart and his heart behind his hot skin.

Nico slips his tongue in his mouth right when the garbage truck blares outside. He breaks away, giggling. 

When Marti looks down at Nico, his eyes are shining. A hand comes up to comb back his auburn hair, holding it at the nape and scratching. It makes Marti shiver, gives him goosebumps which Nico then traces with his pinky down his neck.

It’s taking all of Marti’s strength to not melt right on top of him.

“I’ll go make us coffee,” Nico nods.

A quick peck, and he gently pushes Marti off, rolling out of bed.

Maybe for the best. Once Nico leaves the room Marti has to flop on his back, close his eyes, and focus on the basics of inhaling and exhaling just to calm himself down.

Nico catches him like that nearly five minutes later, startling him out of his skin with his giggle.

“You seem like a sugar kind of guy,” Nico raises an eyebrow. “But this one has no sugar, if you aren’t.” He has two small mugs in his hand, alternating them in little lifts and a dumb grin for Marti to chose. “Sorry, we have no cream.”

“It’s okay,” Marti nods his head, laughing at Nico’s silly dance. “And yes, I do like sugar, thank you.”

“Perfect. I don’t.”

Nico gently places the cup in his hands, and they scoot far back on the bed with their backs against the wall, legs extended in front of them. He taps his bare foot against Marti’s. It’s cold. Marti does it back.

“Can I ask you something?”

Nico looks sideways at him, mid-sip. “Mhm,” he hums, swallowing. “What’s up?”

“Why are you traveling alone?”

There’s a pause where Nico chuckles to himself a bit darkly. The smile on his face fades. “It’s a long story.”

Marti taps his foot again. “I have nothing better to do.”

Nico rests his head against the wall, craning his long neck to look over at Marti with bedhead and thankful eyes. He taps his foot back — a little language now it seems — and exhales deeply at the ceiling.

“Two springs ago, I finally graduated after retaking my final year.” There's a waver to his voice, a choke after the sentence. Contemplation, perhaps, on how to rip off the bandage of what Marti now thinks is a fresh wound. “Because I failed the first time around, due to my undiagnosed personality disorder.”

He looks at Marti, heavy pupils searching every corner of his face for a reaction.

This is probably a lot heavier than it seems to him. Marti doesn’t know what to do besides nod, be kind. Be open to listening.

“It’s better now,” Nico defends himself, exhaling when it seems safe to continue. “I still call my therapist every week. But it was… a lot at the time. And I decided to take a gap year before uni. Parents thought it was a good idea too. So I got two part-time jobs, lived with mom while I got better, and saved every penny. I told them it was because I wanted to go to school in America. Dad was so excited for me to stay with him on college visits…” He looks down into the contents of his coffee, swirls it around.

“But at the end of the summer, I hadn’t applied anywhere and I just… didn’t want to? School was never easy for me, and after everything that happened the structure of it just left a bad taste in my mouth. Like I’m… destined to fail, or something. 

“So I bought four plane tickets. Rome to Budapest, Budapest to Berlin, Berlin to Paris and Paris back to Rome. Which mom thought was a _terrible_ idea, because I, uh, you know, have a tendency to be impulsive. And basically fought me tooth and nail on it… this _small_ thing that I wanted to do for myself after overcoming what felt impossible. That I had the money to do, too. She said I was wasting an investment I had worked so hard for.”

At this, Nico has to pause.

“I mean, I knew she was mad that I left. Dad too. But I kept them updated. I texted them every day and sent them pictures and selfies and my flight info and itineraries for day trips. I wanted them to know I was safe and having fun and to trust me despite… everything. Show them I can still be responsible. And plan big things without seeming off the rails. But they’d read my messages and never respond. I didn’t think… they’d get _that_ mad. I still send them where I’ll be. But on my last day in Paris, I exchanged my flight from Rome to Vienna and have been hopping around since. Not wanting to go home. I told myself just for the summer. But then summer turned into fall and I’m still… not ready to go back. I’ll have to eventually, but I know how to live cheap. I could stretch this out through the winter if I wanted.”

Marti’s heart falters at it all: at Nico overcoming himself, at his parents essentially cold-shouldering him, at the idea of leaving Barcelona without him. He’s been watching Nico this whole time, studying his low, dismal voice that tapers off quietly in the rough spots. It’s the first time he’s looked so serious, and Marti wants to reach out and comfort him. So he does, taking his free hand.

Nico looks down at the gesture, a small smile breaking through. Even so, it lights up his whole face.

“The only one who still supports me is my nonna,” he continues, “and she’s the only reason I have to go back to Rome… well,” he looks back at Marti, cheeks pink. Down again with something unsaid. “Yeah.”

Marti taps his foot again, making him laugh.

“She talks to them. She says they will come around, but that my change of plans certainly didn’t help. I leave for Lisbon tomorrow and we’ll see how that goes. If I can be brave and come back after that.”

Marti hesitates but says it anyway. “I think you are very brave.”

Nico brings their clasped hands up to his lips, kisses the back of Marti’s while looking at him with watery eyes. Like no one has ever said that to him before.

“I wish you could come with me.”

Marti doesn’t even want to be tempted by the thought. He loops his leg over Nico’s knee and kisses his shoulder, resting his forehead against the spot when he’s done.

“We should make the most of today,” Marti says softly, changing the subject and already trying to push tomorrow from his mind. Keeping that _it’s too good to be true_ theory he might have squashed too soon at bay. 

Nico plants a kiss on top of his head, humming into his hair. “We will.”

• • •

And they do. After another hour in bed kissing. After breakfast and ice cream on the boardwalk at Platja de Sant Sebastià. After secretly holding hands on the crowded bus to get to the top of Tibidabo. After too many selfies — hair messy from the rollercoaster and Nico either kissing or attempting to kiss Marti’s cheek in every one. After a late lunch outside of Parc Güell and a nap back at home, tangled up and full.

They make it back out before sunset, walking aimlessly along Avinguda Diagonal and chatting about everything from the book Nico was reading (Ballate by Stefano Benni) to what Marti is studying in school (political science, although he’s thinking about switching degrees). Their slow-stepped window shopping is a rather poor excuse to say goodbye to the city halfway out of guilt, knowing it’s no secret they wouldn’t mind turning in early to make the most of the time they have left with each other. Alone.

They’re on their way back, about a block from home now. And an idea that’s been toying with Marti since this morning is burning hot at the back of his mind — will burn to ash if he doesn’t stoke it, doesn’t act on it. It relies solely on a narrow window of time.

“Do you mind if I run a quick errand?” Marti stops Nico from turning the corner, hand on his elbow. “I’ll meet you back at the apartment?”

Nico looks taken aback, one eyebrow drawing down. “You don’t want me to come with you?”

It’s not necessarily that — Marti is already mourning the time away from Nico — but if it works, the payoff will be worth it. And the surprise, too. But he doesn’t want to ruin it.

“I will be back,” Marti assures, nodding his head down with honest eyes, smoothing his grip from Nico’s elbow to his wrist and dragging him closer. He’d kiss him if he could.

Nico wrinkles his chin, squints his eyes. If he’s onto something, he bites down his suspicions. “Promise to hurry?” He asks low-toned and spirited, failing hard at not giving away what he wants.

But it’s okay, Marti wants the same thing.

“I’ll sprint.”

The recalled memory makes Nico smile. He taps Marti’s foot with his own, recalling another.

And Marti does, kind of. He at least runs for the bus both ways, forehead starting to sweat but the tip of his nose still cold. He was lucky enough to get everything done in just over ninety minutes roundtrip.

Nico is packing his things in the room when Marti opens the door. Lethargic and sloppy. Unfolded shirts and crumpled bags. Marti studies him for a moment. He has his headphones in, unaware.

“Hey,” Marti knocks on the doorframe, standing in it. 

It’s obvious Nico is blue — when he turns around, pulling an earbud out, he drops the socks he was folding together on the bed and cradles Marti up in a hug, snaked arms under his open coat and around his middle. Marti makes a surprised sound at it, letting Nico settle into him before wrapping his arms over his shoulders. He feels smaller than Marti remembered like this.

Nico kisses him, too. Long and stoic with a million words unspoken. With hands that cling and arms that pull, trying to claw closeness from the little time that is left. Like Marti has been his lover for life, like Nico is going off to war.

Marti holds his face through it, his growing smile converse to Nico’s hard edge.

“I want you to have something,” Nico whispers, pulling away but not opening his eyes. He rests his forehead against Marti’s, still hugging his waist. One more kiss and then he turns around, rifling through his backpack.

It’s the postcard.

“I’m sorry if it’s too forward,” he manages to laugh, although dejected. He hands it over.

Marti flips it around.

_Hey Nico,  
Barcelona is beautiful and yesterday you met a boy even more so. His name is Martino. You spent a lot of time with him today, and maybe he’s the love of your life. Whatever happens, this city holds a special place in your heart now._

Marti reads the line _the love of your life_ over and over, eyes snapping between the words again like a glitch. Any nervousness about what he means to Nico — if he’s just part of the memory of Barcelona — dissolves. 

It’s all happening so fast, and maybe that should scare Marti, but he’s already feeling nostalgic. Last night they shared their first kiss and two nights ago they were strangers. But there’s a saying that goes “there are no straight lines or sharp corners in nature, and therefore, homes must have no straight lines or sharp corners.”

(He feels like the same can be said about love. But the beginnings of that are still only nipping at his heart.)

And Marti is sure of it. That this journey hasn’t been a straight line, that he’s hit no sharp corners, and that in this tiny flat with Nico, it’s felt a lot like home.

“I have something for you too,” Marti says softly, smoothing his thumb over where Nico wrote his name. He indulges one last look at it before slipping it into his pocket, switching its place with the ticket.

He hands it over to Nico, whose gaze darts over it first in confusion — narrowed brow, pinched lips — and then in delight. Eyes dancing and glimmery.

“You switched your flight,” Nico whispers, convictionless. “To Lisbon.”

“I can miss a few days of class,” Marti nods. “Gio will give me notes. But I’m all set to go. If you’ll have me.”

Nico tosses the ticket on the bed and nearly tackles him on top of it. A trail of _of course of course of course!_ to follow.

“I will admit,” Nico mutters, kissing every corner of Marti’s face that’s scrunching in a fit of giggles. “That was romantic.”

They tickle. “I was worried it was maybe a little too reckless,” Marti snickers, pushing him back with a bent leg up.

Nico props himself on his elbow — chest to chest with Marti. Their hearts beating excitedly in time. “I did say I wish you could come with me,” he reminds him.

“But then I need to go back,” Marti warns, half-pressing Nico for a more solid answer. “Home. To Rome.”

“Home,” Nico agrees. Kissing him, smiling. All curly creases and rounded edges. “With you.”

**Author's Note:**

> we a little fandom now :(  
if you made it to the end of this 1) thank you! and 2) i'd love it if you left your thoughts or kudos or both
> 
> you can talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) 💛


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